Stupid men and women

Are men genetically attracted to stupid yet enchanting
women ?

Change the word stupid to scheming, because after
Christmas, when he came back with the boys, bearing a
birthday present for me, he had morphed into a strange
creature with an ear-ring and smarter clothes. He was
standing like a basket ball player, in my kitchen,
reaching for the stars, holding out his hand with a
small present for me. It's all a bit muddled now, but I
remember our oldest son tugging at my dress, Mummy,
Mummy.

Life just went bananas from then on, never mind pear
shaped; what the hell does that mean anyway. ?
What it means is this: Alice in Wonderland, the girl
next door, zoomed in on my estranged husband and stole
him, not from me, you understand (though she did of
course) but from our children.

You see people will say it was nothing to do
with me, we weren't together, but we were, as Mummmy
and Daddy. This natural state of affairs would never
have changed, but for her. It has everything to do with
me. What a damn cheek.

Just like that November night back in 1974, Birmingham
was never the same again. Upside down, inside out, it
all went through the fucking roof.

First, he told me, Debbie's been staying with me for
the past week, my heart slowed down and I don't think
it's ever been back up to speed, not really. I
screamed and punched one of those round lampshades that
were hanging artistically around my house; all the
lights went out. Get out I told him.

The children were crying and later, as we three lay in
my bed, they told me how Daddy had suddenly asked them
would they like to see Debbie and the children from
next door for a few days. Suddenly these kids were
riding their bikes around their Dad's garden, 200 miles
away, and Debbie's pretending to be asleep on the
settee. Daddy pushed her head under the quilt when I
came in the bedrom Mummy. Of course he did. So much for
her soiree in Manchester with the alcoholic mother.

That night I cried and cried. He rang the next morning
to tell me he'd crashed the car on the way home, it was
a write off. So were we. I just couldn't understand why
he had set a deadline of a week for us resolving our
problems, when he was planning to hook up with Madame
Bovary.

Oh well. The trauma had really kicked off. It's that
old old song, you don't know what you'vegot till it's
gone; the man who said he still wanted me was
fornicating suddenly with Lady Macbeth, who had pulled
off the biggest sleight of hand, on my own bloody
doorstep. I should have bashed her head in when she
wanted to muscle in on that UB40 concert, but I am too
damn polite. It's all that Catholic shit as usual,
stopping me in my tracks.

He wouldn't talk to me at all once she had slurped her
her pear shaped presence all over our house. Let's not
forget this nugget. That house he was living in was in
both our names. I was heartbroken.

I just hoped in my heart that he would see sense now;
ever the pragmatist, he would realise the cost was too
high to bear; she would never let him near his kids, I
knew that; and how could a left wing lapsed Catholic
agnostic, second generation Irish, settle for a right
wing born again Christian English Proddy ? Well she had
long hair so I suppose that swung it. She had never
done a day's work in her life, but we had worked our
balls off, both of us, to get a home of our own. I was
in shock, and when I think about it, even now, the pain
is as acute as ever. If not worse, because of what they
did. This wasn't about houses or jobs; it was about my
children having their Dad.

One evening, before all this had blown up, Debbie
suddenly whipped out a bunch of black bananas: Watch
this she said, unpeeling them quickly; then she beat
the black and mushy fruit, with flour and eggs and
other things, I can't remember the recipe, into a
beautiful banana cake. Look she said, I've made a cake
from rotten black bananas. Whilst I sipped tea and
watched, in morbid fascination, she had whipped up a
culinary delight, and it's cost me nothing she said.
That is how her father had built up his butcher's
empire, from the scraps, from minced beef, from the
offal, from the entrails, she said. Very appealing and
I believe her, I really do. I can see her even now,
baking that banana cake, telling me how she wouldn't
want a man with children, and if he did have kids, he'd
have to choose between her and them. I said that's
callous, but she insisted, she'd have to come first.
She was telling the truth. For once.

-----------------------------------

It's all a bit much to go over but the nub of it is a
week later Miss Fussy Pussy was back. She drove that
fucking Citreon onto our shared drive one Friday
morning whilst I was out walking our children to
school. January 1985. Funny how I can remember.
Friday nine thirty . I might have been young, but I was
not stupid and I knew that my whole world had
collapsed, because, dramatic as it sounds, this was no
ordinary woman; this was definitely spider woman
staking out her prey. I went into the house to make a
cup of tea and think. He'd written me a letter and I
ripped it open, still hoping to find it was all a
mistake.

" If you have any considersation for the children,
keep them out of the way on Saturday and Sunday because
I am moving Debbie's things to Southend. I am hiring a
van. Do not try to talk to me. Now or ever again. I
will of course see the children in a couple of weeks
when we have sorted our house out. You have a choice
now, to behave like a spoiled brat or to act like a
grownup, as we all are. Debbie and I know what we want
and we're going to have it. Do not think you can stop
us. You can't."

Just a statement; no signature; no date; typed
not handwritten; no names; he did not write my name or
his.

I was straight out the door, knocking and knocking but
of course she didn't answer. I shouted, of course I
bloody shouted, open that door, open that fucking door.
Lady Macbeth opened the door swooning in a pink
candlewick nightgown. You can't do this I said. Why are
you doing this. He can't buy shoes for four children.
One word, she used in reply: Love. I nearly
choked. You don't even know each other. You can't call
this love. You, who sleeps with three men can suddenly
swoop on my children's father because he fits the
fucking bill: Looks, job and money.

I was unfortunate, so were my kids and hers and both
the fathers. As it turned out.

I needed my friends and I wrote to John and Lesley to
arrange to visit to them. It had been a while, but no
wonder, with this bollocks kicking off all aound
me.

I received a spidery letter from Lesley telling me that
she didn't feel able to see me, not just at the moment,
as she felt torn between Chris and me. Life was just so
hectic; what with this school club and that playgroup
and then there was her part time job at the dairy and
John was tied up looking after the two children on
Saturdays whilst she was at work; best not visit when
he was on his own. And I knew why.

The bitch; this was all because I had been made privy
to the truth of their marriage and now that mine had
slithered into this pearshaped mess, for good, she
couldn't be sullied by my presence; might remind her of
how she could have ended up and bloody well deserved
to. The irony is we never wanted them to choose between
us; and now, I just wanted to keep some of the people
from my old life in my new one, but no, I lost them
all. Not Pete and Marian of course, because whilst they
didn't understand, they didn't judge and they never
stopped being my friend. I didn't understand any of
this. It was a sharp lesson for life.

Lesley's letter was too; it made me think back to when
I had just given birth to baby number two; the lovely
John, the baby that slept beyond the sleep of angels.
We now had a house too, just a two up and down with an
overgrown uncreosoted garden fence and a mad old lady
living next door, whose mother had apparently had a
baby at 56. Terrified me that tale. Anyway, John and
Lesley arrived unexpectedly at our house the night I
came home with my new enfant in arms. Whilst the young
fathers were out at the pub, Lesley began to tell me
the tale of her new found life at the dairy. It was a
horror story to me. She probably thinks I've forgotten
all about this now; not bloody likely. Lesley loved
drama and any opportunity to show what a damn nice kind
of a girl she really was underneath that weird
handwriting. There was no way that she'd have tethered
up a pony in her coal shed for one of her kids. Just
dead common that would have been. So Lesley's story
was that whilst the babies were in bed playing with the
angels as my granny used to say, the grownups were away
with the faeries too.

To cut to the quick, this means that she and John were
swopping partners in their home, with the couple from
Donaldson's dairy, whilst their children were sleeping
at night; they were busy bonking over a quivering
washing machine, on the bathroom floor, on the stairs,
in their bed, together and apart. They'd come along way
since their miserable shotgun wedding and early years
in a tower block.

They'd lost their fucking marbles; no wonder she hadn't
wanted us over at their house. After all this
fornicating, John wanted it all to stop, but she it
seems, had convinced herself she'd fallen in love with
the other man, even though he wasn't good looking,
quote, he wanted her. More than he wanted his wife.
More than he had ever wanted any other woman. Shouldn't
think there'd been any other women. Ever. But she just
loved the game, as people do. That's what most of these
power struggles are all about; people getting their own
way, no matter what.

I was utterly repulsed by all this. Now, well, now
I've seen and heard loads of bullshit; but
back then I was stunned and I knew this was just
rubbish. She wouldn't swop Mr Divine, George Clooney
lookalike, for a four eyed ugly git without a bulging
wallet. He had no prospects; her husband did. Even
then, saddled by responsibilty too early, he had come
up trumps; walking his bunions off into an office job
and she was ready to ditch him on a sexual whim. Crazy.
I didn't believe her and the main reason is she was
heavily pregnant with baby number three. Oh the horror
of it all. That baby was born just after we broke up
and things were never the same between us four again.
Can't think why.

There was much trauma and earbending by her on the
phone to me, how she loved the other man; he was
prepared to take them all on, especially the baby. They
could pretend it was his. What ? Like fuck they could.
Don't make me laugh and cry at the same bloody time.
And now it was chickens coming home to roost time. I
hadn't ever really liked her; but I loved John and I
didn't want to lose his friendship. Miss Fussy Pussy
number one was shutting the door to me and now I was
putting up with Miss Fussy Pussy number two sticking
her claws into my children's father.

My husband who said he wanted to fix our marriage has
just moved my friend and next door neighbour into our
house down south. Having persuaded me to buy a
house in joint names, so that our boys would always
have a home, and with my head far from clear about
us, I had just been fucked over big time by the two of
them.

So anyone hearing my account will say I am biased. Of
course I am. But I am also right. There was no
stopping her now. As history will show.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just after Bonnie and Clyde had hit the high road, I
had a visitor. One small tap at the door and I was
catapulted into the next traumatic scenario. It was her
infamous husband, the apparently useless lover, the
failed lonesome rocker, white Martin, father of the
children, still the husband of Debbie on paper, though
not in truth. He wasn't too chuffed, to put it mildly,
that his kids were being whisked away by a man his wife
hardly knew; but he'd been told their plans way before
me. My God they'd painted a black picture of me, so
that's Black Martin and Black Pauline; it's getting a
bit dark round here for my liking.

In a way this story's a bore, but then again, it's a
huge example of love gone wrong, love gone mad and and
love gone bad. I was lost with all this pain. Telling
my two children that the next door neighbour and her
kids were going to shack up with their Dad in their
other house, when they knew he'd only clapped eyes on
her a few weeks ago, was a shock to all of us ; I had
to soften the blow and make it sound tickety boo - now
that was a laugh. I don't think. Oh well, at least I
knew he cared about the kids so I knew he'd come and
talk to them. But I'd got him all wrong. That pratt
Nick arrived next door to collect Adam, but he let her
keep it in the end; seems he couldn't bear to take the
luscious leaved beauty away from its surrogate mother.
And he can't be blamed for his stupidity, because as
I've said this was no ordinary woman; she was
enchanting in a way; she drew people in and then spat
them out. He told me her bed was warm and wet when he
got in it once, during his week long residency with
her. He knew it was Black Martin's sweat on the sheets,
but he couldn't face losing her so he got in and made
love with her instead. Nice.

But the thing is I begged him again and again to come
and talk to the children. Especially the oldest one who
was crying as soon as I took him on my knee and told
him the news. Guess what - Daddy and Debbie really like
each other and he wants her to go to live with him so
he can see more of her ( fat arse ). Eh ? I had to go
over it again and again and that was one of the worst
days in my life, because I knew this was wrong and
selfish and too fast and bollocks. But then who am I to
tell anyone what to do ? I was trying to make it sound
like Enid Blyton and we were about to be shafted big
time. For the next twenty years actually. Though the
lovers sweet will say she lies. Well I think you had to
be there, to see the famouse final scene for yourself,
to understand the capricious nature of the beast that
is known as man. Think with your dick time. He finally
turfed up when the last load was ready to go go go. He
sat and told an eight year old that she, me, it's all
her fault. She doesn't want me so I am going to have
Debbie instead. I love her and I am going to look after
her. Nothing's going to change between us son. But I
knew it was, though I guess, to be fair, he didn't,
because he didn't know her. Though I had spilled the
beans on her web of men and her manipulating lies,
her shitty secret about her child. Oh what a tangled
web we weave when we set out to deceive and all that
stuff.

He turned to me and he looked into my eyes and he
softly said, and you, I never loved you, you were just
my bed partner for the past ten years. No I cried. no
that isn't true. But you went on an on and on, telling
me again and again that you had never loved me and that
you despised me and hated me and had never loved me.
That is the cruelty you let your child see. Hey ho and
off we go. Nothing's going to change. Like fuck it
didn't. Everything changed. And it changed forever. And
all I could see in my mind's eye, was the lovely young
man dressed in blue velvet with Rod Stewart hair
kissing me and singing la la la la la means I love you.
It's my sixteenth birthday and you're singing, you're
sixteen, you're beautiful and you're mine. All ribbons
and fucking curls. Oh. What a girl. But I digress. This
is not a story about hair. This is a story about life
in all its glorious technicolour. A kaleidoscope.